"I have a license."
"Not for parking lots."
Despite everything—the danger, the warning bells, the voice in my head screaming about self-preservation—I almost smiled. "What do you want, Axel?"
The humor vanished. "Devil's Dust knows there was a witness. They're looking."
My stomach dropped. I kept my expression neutral—a skill I'd learned young, in homes where showing fear was an invitation.
"And you thought following me to work would help how?"
"I've had eyes on you for three days." He closed the remaining distance until I could smell leather and motor oil and that warm masculine scent underneath that made my pulse skip. "Making sure they haven't found you first."
"Eyes on me?" Anger flared, mixing with something hotter I refused to name. "You've been having me watched?"
"Protected." His grey eyes bore into mine. "There's a difference."
"Not to me."
His hand moved. I tensed, muscles coiling, but he only pointed to a white van across the structure. "See that? Been there since you arrived. Engine's still warm. No hospital parking permit."
I looked. Tinted windows. Clear sightline to employee parking. No visible driver.
"Could be anyone?—"
"Could be." He stepped closer, and suddenly my back was against my Kawasaki, his body a wall of heat and muscle blocking out the fluorescent light. "Want to risk it?"
This close, I could see the exhaustion lines around his eyes. The healing cut on his knuckles. The way his body positioned itself between me and the van without conscious thought—a soldier's instinct.
"I can take care of myself."
"I know. Saw that three nights ago." His hand came up, hovering near my jaw without quite touching. "Doesn't mean you should have to."
The van's engine roared to life.
Everything happened fast.
Tires squealed. The van stopped ten feet away, side door sliding open with a metallic shriek. Three men spilled out—Devil's Dust patches visible on their cuts.
The one in front had a voice I recognized. Nasal. Sneering. The knife-wielder whose wrist Axel had snapped.
"Well, well." His grin showed too many teeth. A cast encased his right arm, but his left held a gun. "Reaper's got himself a new toy."
"Walk away, Slash." Axel's voice had gone deadly quiet. "This doesn't concern him."
"Anything concerning Phoenix concerns us." Slash moved closer, flankers spreading to cut off escape routes. One carried a rusted pipe. The other had a hand inside his jacket. "Especially pretty little witnesses."
My hand tightened on the tactical pen. Three against one, with me as liability. Bad odds.
"I said—" Axel started.
I moved.
The pen found the flanker's liver before he could draw—Tyler had drilled this into me a hundred times.Soft tissue. Maximum pain. Minimum effort.The man doubled over with a strangled noise. I grabbed his collar, used his momentum, threw him into Slash. The gun went wide. Third man swung the pipe—I ducked, drove my elbow into his solar plexus, shoved hard. His head met a concrete pillar with a crack that echoed through the garage.
Three seconds. All three down or disoriented.
Axel had Slash against the van before I could blink, forearm across his throat, his other hand keeping the gun at bay, lifting him onto his toes. The muscles in his arms bunched and strained, barely contained violence.
